


when the smoke is in your eyes, you look so alive

by froglawyer



Category: youtube - Fandom
Genre: Blow Jobs, Colorblind GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Feelings Realization, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Getting verbal consent is sexy, M/M, Pining, Porn With Plot, Recreational Drug Use, they smoke weed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28993887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/froglawyer/pseuds/froglawyer
Summary: George wonders what other people saw when they looked at Dream’s eyes. He knows they’re green, and if anyone asked George what color his friend’s eyes were, he’d say the same. But it’s not what he saw. Dream’s eyes were a sort of dark yellow to him, muted, at least normally. But through the smoky haze, Dream’s eyes glow as the light from the joint he’s taking a puff of casts across his friend’s face, turning them into more of a bright topaz, an amber-colored warmth.--George visits Dream in Florida. Feelings are realized, and Dream is very enthusiastic about having his friend around.--The title is from the song Fallingforyou by the 1975
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), dream - Relationship
Comments: 16
Kudos: 392





	when the smoke is in your eyes, you look so alive

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, this is my first time ever writing smut. Please be nice and validate me. It was really hard to write from George's perspective, but I pretty much just got super high and wrote this in one sitting. Let me know if you enjoy :)

George is still surprised that he made it to Florida in one piece, let alone that he had made the journey at all. The trip itself was relatively planned out, but a part of George had felt like it was never actually going to happen. The plane ride had felt exhaustingly slow, but finding Dream in the terminal and driving to his house and unpacking his stuff in Dream’s guest room had felt like a blur. They had met up before, in the UK, but going across the ocean had felt significantly more stressful for George than meeting up with Dream in Bristol. George had only been to Florida once before this, but this was different, this was Dream’s Florida, not Disney World’s Florida.

They had planned out a lot of things to do, Dream going so far as to make a collaborative Google Doc so that they could schedule it out together. George had been pleasantly surprised with his friend’s enthusiasm. Even though George could do absolutely nothing but sit on Dream’s couch for the whole 2 weeks and be happy about it, he played along. His first day there hadn’t been filled with much, mostly just adjusting to his new surroundings and then crashing when jet lag set in. Today, his second day here, Dream had just planned on playing video games, and by their mutual agreement, smoking weed.

George didn’t smoke a lot, even in university when his smoking habit was at it’s peak. His friends always liked it more than he did, and usually it would just make him hyper focus on various anxieties. The relaxation that most people enjoyed, George rarely felt. But when Dream had excitedly mentioned that they could smoke over Discord, George didn’t want to say no like he usually would’ve. He had actually felt excited. Now, George watches as Dream nimbly grinds the weed and attempts to roll a joint, failing a couple of times at first when stems poke through the thin paper. George doesn’t ask where Dream got the weed, and Dream doesn’t bring it up. It was Florida, though, and for some reason, George feels like you could ask about anyone for any drug and they’d know somewhere to find it.

Dream sparks up the joint with ease from his cross-legged position on the floor and inhales cautiously as George looks on, passing it over to George and coughing lightly into his hand. George had been worried that he wouldn’t remember how to smoke somehow, but now he grabs the joint with ease and brings it to his lips. The once familiar burn tickles his throat and dries his mouth, but after his first couple of hits, he already feels the effects from the smoke in his drooping eyes and the fuzzy feeling in his brain. Dream smiles at him when he doesn’t cough, the kind of smile where you can see the warmth of it in his eyes, and George can’t quite look away. They pass it off a couple more times, chatting lightly in between puffs.

In a lull in conversation, George wonders what other people saw when they looked at Dream’s eyes. He knows they’re green, and if anyone asked George what color his friend’s eyes were, he’d say the same. But it’s not what he saw. Dream’s eyes were a sort of dark yellow to him, muted, at least normally. But through the smoky haze, Dream’s eyes glow as the light from the joint he’s taking a puff of casts across his friend’s face, turning them into more of a bright topaz, an amber-colored warmth. The eyes in question flick up to meet George’s as Dream passes the joint over, and George is struck dumb by his newest color revelation. How could he ever think Dream’s eyes were dull? George nearly fumbles the joint as he takes it from Dream’s outstretched hand, and he puts in physical effort to drag his eyes away from Dream as he puts his lips to the joint’s filter.

“How does it feel?” Dream asks when George passes it back to him, and George just shrugs. Dream falls silent as he takes his turn smoking. 

“You know I’ve smoked before, right? It’s not like England just doesn’t have weed,” He finally responds after taking a moment to think. Dream seems to consider this as he stubs out the joint in his ashtray, they had already smoked most of it, and George’s tolerance was low at this point.

“Yeah, I know. You just said it had been a while.”

“I guess I just sort of feel heavy, y’know?” George responds, leaning back into the bean bag he was in. Dream just hums in response and the room falls into a pleasant quiet, Dream’s speakers playing a soft song in the background. George hadn’t been lying when he said he felt heavy, his limbs feel as though they’re sinking into the dark fabric where he’s sitting. He leans his head back against the cushion and closes his eyes, enjoying the syrupy feeling. But after a while, the desire to look back at liquid amber strikes him and he lurches his head back up. Dream’s already looking at him, and as they make eye contact, Dream’s eyes dart away.

In their silence, George takes a moment to inspect Dream’s living room. It’s nighttime at this point, and the room is lit up dimly by a couple of small lamps on end and coffee tables. George’s bean bag sits directly across from a cushy looking white couch, and Dream’s leaning his back against the black coffee table in front of it. Dream looks as though he belongs in the room, warm light casting gentle shadows across his freckled face and navy hoodie. They’re both wearing sweatpants and jumpers, the cool A/C whispering from across the room. The house isn’t exactly clean, but the messiness gives it charm. The room itself is decorated with all sorts of tiny knick-knacks, from video game figures to gifts from fans, the space feels like a carefully cultivated inventory of Dream’s personality. George wonders if he also looks like he fits into the room, or if he looks out of place.

“George?” This snaps his attention away from his thoughts. Dream’s looking at him expectantly.

“Yeah?”

“I think I might’ve gotten too high,” Dream says, voice hoarse, and then he inexplicably starts giggling. George stares a moment too long before he replies.

“Same.” And then they’re both giggling, reddened eyes crinkling at the corners as they laugh.

“It’s been a while for me, too,” Dream chokes out as their laughing dies down. George tries to listen attentively, but he can feel his heartbeat and his fingers feel like they’re shaking a little bit. “I used to smoke a lot in college. Like, self-medicating for ADD. It helped, somehow.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” George takes a moment to process it. It feels as though his thoughts have somehow both slowed down and sped up at the same time. It really has been a while since he’s smoked. 

“I suppose that makes sense,” Dream repeats in a horrible British accent, and George seizes with laughter. George flails his hand around to grab at a pillow that’s nearby and toss it at him, Dream just barely able to deflect it. Dream wheezes and chucks the pillow back at George, smacking him in the shoulder.

“Fuck you,” George manages between laughs. He had forgotten how funny everything is when he’s high.

“You wish,” Dream sighs, stretching out his arms behind his head with an eyebrow wiggle.

“In your wildest dreams, dude.” Dream just grins at that and George is once again at a loss for words as Dream’s eyes glint at him through the lasting traces of smoke. They were slowly turning back to the muted yellow as usual, but George doubts he’ll be able to forget when they glowed like embers.

“What?” Dream asks after a moment, sounding slightly defensive. One of his hands had risen to rub at his cheekbone.

“What?” George furrows his eyebrows, confused.

“You’re looking at me funny. Do I have something on my face?”

George snorts, but he feels something like anxiety clench in his stomach. “Maybe you’re just funny looking.”

Dream just flips him off and glances away, and George wants Dream to look at him again. So he says something.

“Your eyes look yellow to me. That’s what I was looking at,” George explains, and the intended effect happens. Dream’s eyes had snapped back to look at him, full of confusion.

“Yellow? Seriously? That’s like the worst color ever.” Dream opens his phone and points the front camera at his eyes, and George wonders if expects to see a different color than he usually does.

“It’s not that bad. Yellow can be a nice color.” A very nice color, George thinks.

“I can’t believe that I have the best eye color, the rarest one might I add, and you can’t even  _ see _ it. That’s so messed up.”

“Green is  _ not _ the best eye color.” George just enjoys riling Dream up, but in the moment, George does think yellow-green eyes could reign supreme. He’d never say it aloud, though.

“Whatever, dude.” Dream was still studying himself in the camera, but suddenly put it away and shuffled from his position on the floor to sit closer to George, putting his face right in front of George’s, eyes intense.

“What are you doing?” George manages to get out, stumbling slightly on his words as he reels his face away from Dream’s.

“Look closer, they can’t be  _ yellow _ . Like, just yellow. That’s awful.”

“What is your beef with yellow, anyways?” George asks but acquiesces, only moving his head forward a couple of centimeters to study his friend’s eyes. George pointedly tries to ignore how close they are, how, if they moved even a little, their noses would bump. Up close, he can see the fluid patterns of his friend’s iris, and with further inspection, George concludes: “Yeah, they’re still yellow.”

“Ugh,” Dream throws himself back down on the floor, draping an arm over his face. George takes a deep breath, feeling his lungs burn as he realizes he had forgotten to breathe with his friend so close to him. A hint of Dream’s stomach peeks out from under his hoodie, and George feels as though he’s transfixed.

“You are so dramatic,” George says fondly, and Dream peeks an eye out from under his arm to glare at George.

“I’m a Leo, or whatever. Drama is supposed to be my full personality,” Dream mutters back. George just shakes his head. Then, Dream pipes up again. “I am so hungry. Are you hungry?”

George feels his stomach rumble at the thought of food, and suddenly it’s all George can think about. “Yeah, I could definitely eat.”

“You are going to be so impressed with my snack collection.” Dream lurches up from his position on the floor and starts walking to his kitchen, leaving George to scramble to his feet to catch up. The kitchen is small but functional, and Dream opens up the largest cabinet. Oreos, Doritos, potato crisps, Cheetos, and more greet him.

“Holy  _ shit _ , Dream. Are you trying to feed an army?”

“This is just the American way, George. Get used to it,” Dream replies with a small laugh while he picks up half of the crisp bags to take back with them. As Dream begins his trek back to the living room, he calls over his shoulder. “There’s soda in the fridge. Grab me one?”

George returns shortly with two sodas in hand and passes one of to Dream, who has taken a position on the couch. Against better judgment, George sits right next to him, arms separated by only a couple of centimeters. He feels Dream shuffle around next to him, and the space between their arms becomes nonexistent. George isn’t a touchy person, he doesn’t like it when people invade his personal space, but with Dream it feels natural. He isn’t sure what to make of that, so he tries to ignore it entirely. When Dream visited George in England, it hadn’t felt like this, had it? Was it filled with this same weird want to be closer? Dream had been touchy, but George had assumed he was always like that.

“George?” 

“Dream?”

“Ew, that’s weird.” George turns to look at him, and Dream’s nose is scrunched up like he’s grossed out.

“What’s weird?” George asks between a handful of Cheetos.

“I dunno, I’ve just never thought about it before. Just like, being called Dream in person is so weird, y’know? Like, what if I just called you GeorgeNotFound all the time.”

“You call Sapnap, Sapnap, even though his name’s Nick,” George points out.

“I call him Nick, sometimes.”

“What do you want me to call you then? You hate it when I call you Clay.”

“I don’t  _ hate _ it,” Dream responds with an eye roll. “It’s just weird, too. I don’t know.”

“Well, I have to call you something, idiot.”

“Clay, I guess.”

“Okay, Clay,” George says, but he snorts at how unnatural it feels. Dream just shakes his head and smiles down at his lap. “Hey, Clay?”

“Why, yes, George?” Dream says in his stupid British accent, and George bumps him none too gently with his shoulder.

“Would you be a darling, and roll another joint?” George feels himself asking, but he doesn’t know if he actually wants to smoke another joint, or if he just wants to watch Dream smoke the whole thing by himself. Something about the smoke causing a hazy halo around Dream’s head makes Dream look so alive, so real, that George wants to take a picture of the memory and put it in his pocket.

Dream goes along with George’s joking flirt, “I would love nothing more, my dear.”

George wonders how long they can do this dance, if the flirting could stay a joke forever. He’s thought about it before, and he’s thinking about it now as Dream prepares another joint. There was never a part of him that considers himself gay, but there was also never a part of him that completely closed off the option. It’s hard to tell, sometimes, when they’re joking and when they’re not. It feels like a joke when they’re streaming, when they’re recording videos, but their long conversations that last well into the night after they’re done working always felt blurred, like the line between banter and real emotions had become tenuously thin. There’s only so long you can joke about something before it begins to manifest in actuality, and George can feel himself on the tipping point. It doesn’t help that Dream is everything George isn’t, loud and openly affectionate, his heart forever on his sleeve. If Dream’s heart is on his sleeve, George’s is in the front pocket of his own hoodie, tucked away for his eyes only. Dream is impulsive, George is calculated. But they’ve always made it work.

“Done!” Dream exclaims and George jumps out of his reverie, feeling an embarrassed blush at almost getting caught daydreaming spread across his face as Dream excitedly presents George with the finished joint. “First try!”

“Well done,” George says condescendingly, but Dream is brimming with pride like a little kid. George plucks the joint out of Dream’s open palm and pretends to inspect it for any mistakes. “I guess it’ll have to do.”

“Oh, shut up. As if you can even roll one, dickhead,” Dream responds with a shove to George’s shoulder, but George just picks up the lighter and takes the first puff. The warmth of his high that had been fading returns in full force as the smoke hits his lungs, filling him with that airy but heavy feeling. George turns, just to be an asshole, and blows the smoke directly in Dream’s face. Dream coughs and snatches the joint from George’s hand, glaring at him.

“You can’t be trusted with this,” Dream mutters disdainfully and takes a hit, eyes closed like he’s deeply exasperated.

“I’m older. If anything, I shouldn’t be trusting you with it,” George shoots back and makes a grab for the joint, narrowly snagging it before Dream could jolt away.

“Hey!” Dream exclaims in mock hurt, attempting to swipe the joint back, but George scoots away on the couch as he takes another rip. “Dude, get back here with the joint.”

“No, I think I’m okay over here, thanks,” George responds with mirth shaking his voice, victoriously taking another puff.

A mischievous glint appears in Dream’s marigold eyes, and George has a split second to prepare himself before Dream leaps across the couch at him. George scrambles backward until his back hits the arm of the couch before he pulls himself over it, tumbling onto the floor. He hears Dream smack the arm of the couch as he lands from his jump, then he sees those eyes peek over the side of the couch at him. George imagines he looks pretty ridiculous like this, his legs squished against the couch, his back curled awkwardly against the end table behind him. Dream erupts in laughter and lays his forehead against the couch’s fabric, and George can’t help but laugh with him.

“George,” Dream wheezes, “You look so- so  _ stupid _ down there.” And then he erupts into another fit of laughter. George squirms for a moment to get himself in a better sitting position, his own laughter dying down once he sits up, chin now a couple of centimeters above the couch’s arm, head nearly level with Dream’s. The forgotten joint nearly goes out on George before he quickly takes a puff, he’s surprised that it even managed to stay lit at all. Dream looks up at him from the couch just as George exhales, and the smoke rustles around Dream’s hair, so close that George can see each individual strand.

“Don’t you want to get back up here?” Dream asks after a moment, finally reaching to pluck the joint out of George’s hand.

“I dunno, I’m probably stuck here for eternity,” George responds with a small laugh, and he knows that if he wasn’t high, there would be an ache in his back and pain in his tucked up knees, but his face is so close to Dream’s that he did want to stay there for an eternity.

Dream hums around the joint, and this time it’s George who gets a faceful of smoke. He doesn’t inhale it, just watches as it breezes past him. Dream looks like he’s in his element, long, tanned fingers flicking the ash onto the wooden floor next to George’s feet. George scrunches his nose at that, hoping that Dream vacuums regularly. This thought prepares him to leave the floor, but Dream moves forward at the same time and George knocks the top of his head into Dream’s chin. George falls so that he lands on the side of the end table, rubbing his head while Dream nurses his jaw.

“Ow,” Dream whines, and touches his lip. George notices the blood there and reaches over to wipe at it before he even knows what he’s doing, swiping a thumb across Dream’s bottom lip. Dream freezes, before wincing slightly in pain. “I think I bit it when you attacked me.”

“Attacked you? Seriously?” George asks fondly, head still aching.

“Yes, attacked. And you almost made me drop the joint, you’re such an asshole.”

“Oh, well, I’m  _ so _ sorry. What do you want me to do, kiss it better?” The words leave George’s mouth without any filter, pain and smoke making his head hazy, his words bolder.

Dream’s face darkens with what George knows is a blush, and for the first time in his life, he desperately wants to know what red truly looks like. How annoying, George thinks, that all his life he never cared about the colors red and green, and now, that’s all he wants to know. Dream fiddles with the joint before reaching across to the coffee table and throwing the joint into the ashtray. Then he looks back at George.

“I-” Dream starts, then shakes his head. They’re farther apart now, Dream still laying on his stomach on the couch, propped up by elbows, and George perched on Dream’s end table. “You’re so weird, George.”

“Weird how?” George responds with an easy grin. He knows that if they were sober, this conversation would be incredibly odd, but he only feels at ease.

“I just- I never know what you’re gonna say. You always surprise me, is all,” Dream responds quietly.

“At least I’ll never get boring, then,” George says, and Dream narrows his eyes at him.

“You could never be boring.”

“That’s what I just said,” George jokes, leaning over to poke Dream’s shoulder. The fabric of his navy hoodie is warm and soft, George wants to wrap himself in it like a cocoon. Dream pokes George’s shoulder back, and with George leaning down their faces are close again. George wants to count every freckle on his face, every fleck of gold in his eyes. Sometimes, Dream feels magnetic to George, maybe like a black hole, or maybe like the sun, pulling him closer with no way to escape. Dream’s the sun and George is Icarus, and George feels like he’s falling, falling, falling.

Dream is staring at George and George is staring right back. The smoke’s made Dream’s normally wide eyes go squinty, and he’s looking up at George with unabashed fondness.

“Maybe you should,” Dream says after a moment, with the cockiness that only Dream could possess.

“Should what?” George asks, already forgetting their previous conversation with Dream so close to him.

Dream’s confidence falters for only a moment, if George had blinked he would’ve missed it. “Y’know, kiss it better. For luck.”

George feels his heartbeat quicken, and he can’t tell if Dream’s kidding or not. His eyes flick down to Dream’s lip, a tiny line of blood still lingering. This is the problem with joke flirting, George can never tell how far it goes. So, he settles for a joke.

“You wish,” George repeats Dream from earlier. Dream’s expression drops slightly before it levels out.

“Maybe I do.”

George doesn’t know if it’s the weed, or if it’s the buildup from years of playful banter that makes him do it. It feels like it doesn’t even happen, with how quick it ends. George leans down and presses a small, barely-there kiss to Dream’s bottom lip before he reels back, hoping that Dream would just laugh as if George had continued the joke. Instead, the sight that greets George is, finally, a silent Dream. His eyes are wide, cheeks dark with a blush George can’t quite see, and he imagines a similar one graces his own face. Dream recovers quickly, shaking his head slightly like he can’t believe what just happened. George can’t quite believe it, either. The usual easy openness of Dream’s face returns, a broad smile blooming.

“You kissed me!” Dream crows, rolling over onto his back so that George can’t see his face anymore, only the top of his head. “You kissed me. I didn’t think you had the balls!”

“I would barely call that a kiss.” George would normally be embarrassed, but there’s just something about Dream that makes it impossible to feel awkward in his presence.

“Uh-huh, mhm, yeah, right,” Dream replies, flipping back over to his stomach then scooting up to be on his knees on the couch, facing George where he’s still on the end table. He shuffles closer to George, eyes taunting. “Then what  _ would _ you call a kiss, hm?”

They’re at eye level, and something about Dream’s face makes George want to shut him up for once, and he doesn’t feel like this is a joke anymore. So, with the confidence that can only be inspired by being in the presence of Dream, George responds: “Come over here and find out.”

Dream barely leans forward, looking hesitant, before George puts both hands on the sides of his face and tugs him forward, lips landing on George’s. Dream doesn’t automatically kiss him back, seemingly frozen, but then something clicks and Dream responds enthusiastically to him, not seeming to know where to put his hands, over excitedly putting them everywhere, on his back, his hair, his face, his ribs. George has kissed plenty of people, but none of them gave him the same rush of kissing Dream. Dream’s lips are chapped, and George can vaguely taste the coppery blood that still rests on Dream’s lip. Their lips push and pull against each other, and George can barely remember the sequence of events that led to this moment, he can only focus on  _ Dream kissing me, Dream’s hands on me, Dream, Dream, Dream, Clay. _ He distantly feels himself getting pulled towards the couch, and without breaking the connection, he slides into place in front of Dream.

The kiss borders on demanding, but George doesn’t mind it. Dream takes and takes and takes, and George is more than happy to give. He feels Dream’s hand trace down his spine, then it’s sliding up slightly under his sweatshirt, Dream’s cold hand tracing patterns along his lower back. In retaliation, George pulls slightly on the hair at the nape of Dream’s neck, and Dream makes a soft noise that George feels scorching into his brain, burned into his memory forever. Teeth bite softly at George’s lip, and then George is pulling Dream backward until he’s on top of George and he never wants this to end. Dream adjusts so that his knees bracket George’s hips with George leaning back against the arm of the couch. Dream is so much bigger than George that the position is honestly laughable, but there’s nowhere George would rather be. 

Dream’s hands slide up the front of his shirt, finding purchase against George’s bony ribs, clutching him tight like George could disappear from under him. The pressure of Dream’s lips feels so right, and the heavy warmth of Dream in his lap feels better than any blanket could. Finally, with lungs burning, George pulls back to breathe, but Dream has other ideas. He leans down and peppers kisses along George’s neck, leaving a trail of burning desire in its wake. George sighs and wraps one hand around the back of Dream’s neck, the other hand skirting anywhere that he wants because finally, finally, George can do whatever he wants. Tired of not kissing, George pulls Dream back up by the hair lightly, bringing his lips back to George’s. George licks across Dream’s bottom lip, and, without meaning to, the image of George’s thumb swiping across Dream’s lip comes back to him, and then he wonders how it would’ve felt to push his thumb between those lips. Heat rushes to George’s groin, but the kisses, disappointingly, start to slow down in fervor. After a couple more moments, Dream pulls back with what seems like an excruciating effort, and George blinks his eyes open to look at his friend.

Dream looks nearly ravaged, hair mussed up and cheeks dark, lips swollen. George resists the urge to pull out his phone and take a picture.

“George,” Dream finally says, sounding out of breath. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“I have? What do you call your performance, then? Average?” George asks and then they break out into giggles, Dream leaning forward, still perched on his lap, and tucking his face in the crook of George’s neck. “Are you smelling me?”

“No,” Dream mutters defensively, but he sounds guilty enough that George doesn’t push it any further. George feels movement in his lap as Dream shuffles for a more comfortable position, but then George notices something hard resting on his leg, and George immediately feels his own cheeks burn.

“Is that- is that-” George is giggling too hard to finish the sentence, so he takes a deep breath and tries again. “Is that a phone in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

He feels Dream immediately tense up and then Dream is moving his hips away from George, pulling back so that he’s sat on George’s thighs. George finally gets a good look at Dream’s face and he looks so mortified that George can barely stop the giggle from leaving his lips.

“Dude, you can’t laugh.” And then George is laughing, and Dream breaks into a tiny smile. “You can’t blame me, I haven’t gotten laid in forever and then you kiss me like that. It’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” George muses, and he wonders if Dream knows how close George had been to asking him to get on his knees.

“You’re such a dick, George. You kiss me, get me hard, and then you  _ laugh _ in my-” George cuts Dream off with another kiss and Dream melts into it. If George had only known how easy it is to shut Dream up, he would’ve done this ages ago. 

This kiss starts slower, more cautious, but Dream doesn’t seem to want to go slow. George wonders if he’s ever been patient for anything in his life, but he allows himself to be pulled into Dream’s riptide, allows himself to be drowned in burning kisses. George’s hands fly to Dream’s hips and pulls them closer as Dream clutches George’s jaw, allowing their hips to meet. Hesitantly, George grinds up into Dream, and is rewarded with a soft moan that barely escapes Dream’s mouth, and George would do anything to hear it again. His own dick has been hard since he had pulled Dream into his lap initially, and George’s cock strains desperately against the waistband of his sweatpants. George is barely high anymore, but the rush of heat going through his head quickly replaces it. Before they go any further, George knows he has to pull back and get clear consent. He softly shoves at Dream’s shoulder, and Dream resists moving back for a moment.

“What now?” Dream asks, looking exasperated.

“Are sure you wanna do this?” George has to make sure this isn’t just some stoned make out session that Dream would regret the next morning.

“Dude, I am sitting in your lap. You think I’m not into this?” Dream seems baffled by the question.

George sighs in impatience. “Are we sober enough to do this?”

“Oh! Yeah, I’m good. Are you good?” Dream’s gone back to being slightly hesitant, like George is about to just up and change his mind.

“Yeah, I’m good.” And then Dream is back on him, lips parting as they reach George’s. Their tongues meet as George smooths a hand down Dream’s waist, memorizing the small curve of it to his hip bone, splaying against the fabric that covers it. 

The kisses border on feverish, with bitten lips and sloppy noises, and George almost feels like a horny teenager again. Dream experimentally grinds his ass down on George’s lap and it feels like all of the air punches out of his lungs, his lips faltering slightly against Dream’s. Dream does it again and again and again, and George works his palm across Dream’s stomach and down, coming to rest above the tent in Dream’s sweatpants. George presses the heel of his hand against Dream’s cock and Dream lets out a soft keen into George’s mouth. Although George has barely considered before this how Dream would be in bed, him being loud is hardly a surprise to George. They work in a rhythm, Dream grinding down onto George’s lap and George rubbing his palm across Dream’s cock.

Dream stops grinding down, and confusion barely begins to settle in when Dream pulls back from George’s lips, but then he sees where Dream’s focus is. His hands are fumbling across the strings of George’s sweatpants, untying and loosening the fabric. George immediately jumps to assist, lifting his ass slightly off of the couch so that the sweatpants and boxers can be pulled down enough for his cock to spring free of its confinements. Wanting to be equal, George tugs down on Dream’s sweatpants, and George barely gets to see Dream’s dick before Dream’s lips are back on his. George sucks on Dream’s bottom lip as he feels a cold hand wrap around his dick, and he barely resists the urge to jerk away from the icy touch. But then the hand is moving up and down and swiping across his tip and George nearly sees stars behind his closed eyelids. George blindly reaches for Dream’s dick and wraps his hand around the base, slowly pulling his hand up the shaft, and Dream seems to jolt in his arms, a choked moan escaping his lips. George chases the noises, sealing it in as he licks his way into Dream’s mouth.

Dream pulls back for a moment, almost panting as they jerk each other off. “George- George, hold on.” 

“What?” George barely manages to grit out, despite Dream’s hand still moving up and down his dick.

“Can I try something?” Dream asks, and George would let Dream do anything to him in that moment.

“Of course.” But then Dream’s scooting off of George and onto the floor, knees splayed underneath him.

“What are you- oh.” George’s question doesn’t even get to leave his lips as Dream pulls on George’s legs, and his body swings so that he’s sitting on the edge of the couch with Dream kneeling between his legs.  _ Oh _ . “Are you sure?”

“ _ So _ fucking sure.” Then, Dream promptly flattens his tongue and licks from the base of George’s cock to the tip, and George has to close his eyes to stop himself from cumming right there on Dream’s face. After a few moments of Dream experimentally tonguing at his dick, George finally feels the strength to open his eyes, but at that exact moment, Dream takes the head of his dick into his mouth and sucks,  _ hard _ . George’s hands fly, one hand finding purchase in blond hair, the other grabbing at his own thigh, desperately trying to hold himself together.

“Holy  _ shit _ , Clay.” The words tumble out of his mouth without thinking, and Dream’s eyes flick up to meet George’s, those yellow, yellow eyes with their mischievous glint. George feels as though he’s done for and Dream has barely even started. 

He finds himself lost in the wet heat of Dream’s mouth, the feeling of Dream’s tongue curling around the tip of his cock every time he pulls back, and then the tight suction from his hollowed out cheekbones as he presses back down. A tanned hand slides around the base of his cock, moving in time with Dream’s lips. Every time Dream’s head bobs, he goes further down on George’s dick until his nose is pressed into George’s skin, and at this, George involuntarily twitches his hips forward into the heat. Dream chokes slightly, and the feeling of it makes the edges of George’s mind start to go blurry. He strokes Dream’s hair apologetically, but when George feels movement against his leg, he looks further down, past Dream’s face, and  _ Oh my God _ Dream is jerking himself off while sucking George’s dick. George starts to feel the muscles tense in his abdomen, and God Dream looks so good on his knees.

“Cl-Clay, I’m gonna-” And then Dream is pulling back until it’s just his tongue licking at George’s tip, the loss of Dream’s mouth almost makes George whine, but then Dream’s hand starts jerking him off. The sensation combined with Dream’s tongue makes his vision go white, but not before he sees Dream’s beautiful, topaz eyes blinking up at him. Pleasure wracks his mind as Dream pumps him through his orgasm, and then George hears a moan come from beneath him. He’s not ready for what greets him as he blinks his eyes open, Dream’s face covered in George’s cum while Dream finishes himself off. George watches intently as Dream’s face scrunches up and then Dream’s moaning again and cum splatters on the fabric of Dream’s sweatpants. Dream slumps forward, head thumping against George’s leg.

“Well,” Dream says after they catch their breath for a moment. “I definitely did  _ not _ have this planned in our Google Doc.”

A laugh rips out of George’s chest at this, and then they’re both laughing at how ridiculous the situation is. Two supposedly straight best friends, but one of them has cum on their face. George carefully tucks himself back into his boxers, and Dream does the same.

“I shouldn’t have pulled off, this shit feels disgusting on my face,” Dream mumbles once they’ve settled down, and he haphazardly grabs a blanket from his couch and begins to wipe it off. George is sorry to see it go.

“Well, I enjoyed it, at least.” Enjoyed is an understatement, George considers.

“Thank God one of us did,” Dream shoots back, but the grin on his face tells George everything he needs to know.

“I would’ve given you a hand, y’know,” George quips, but Dream just waves him off and clambers back onto the couch next to him.

“So-”

“We-” They both start talking at the same time, and George waves Dream on.

“Should we talk about this tonight, or is this a tomorrow problem?” Dream asks.

“Tomorrow, for sure,” George responds instantly. His lust and high have both completely faded, leaving only a feeling of exhaustion.

“Sounds good to me,” Dream responds with a yawn, and George gently nudges Dream’s shoulder with his own. A beat of silence. “I still can’t believe you think my eyes are yellow.”

“That’s your takeaway from this?” George asks, rolling his eyes. Dream just shrugs and George takes it as his cue to lean back against the cushion behind him and close his eyes. He distantly feels Dream pulling him down into the couch.

The next morning, the sun forces its way through the blinds and finds itself illuminating a pair of best friends, wrapped around each other like there was gravity holding them together.


End file.
